A Requiem for Who You Were
by Auel the Winter
Summary: Matt is lost in regret because of his failure to protect his cousin. Andrew wanders aimlessly as a dark entity seeks him out. Casey is torn between bringing Matt back to his senses and keeping him safe from the world. The streets of Seattle will be calm for the last time as these three souls gravitate towards an unavoidable confrontation. Darkfic. R&R.
1. Prologue

**A Requiem for Who You Were**

**By Harlander Tavern**

**Prologue**

It would have been a lie if for him to admit he knew this day would come, but Matt can't help but experience a sense of familiarity once he steps out of Casey's car. Even at a distance he finds himself nearly choking on the acrid stench of burning plastics, metals and whatever was contained within the hospital only a block away from the two of them. Also mixed with the over powering smoke was the fresh smell of blood from his nose, which he paid little attention to at first.

"Matt, please take this and hold it to your face." Casey hands him yet another tissue from the box she'd been carrying the whole car ride. Her face is a collision of discomfort and annoyance, most likely from Matt's insistence on bringing them here.

"Andrew needs me. He's up there. I just know he is." Matt's eyes don't even dare stray from the sight of smoke billowing from the eleventh floor of the hospital.

"You've been saying that ever since we left me house, but how do you know, Matt? What's really going on here?"

Matt doesn't even grace her with a glance. The thought of his cousin being in danger up there was horrifying, paling at the least. From the moment he left for the hospital, the screams in his head had faded, but not stopped. They don't even sound like Andrew; more like an aggressive animal he had never heard of. It's ferocious, no matter how quiet it gets.

"It's hard to explain." Matt still fails to fully tear himself from the awful sight.

"Don't give me that! Either there's something about this-" Casey points towards the burning eleventh floor "-that has to do with you, or you're just insane. Somehow, I doubt it's the latter. Now I think I deserve to know why you dragged me out here to this place!"

"_You_ got in the car! I didn't make you come!" Matt snaps back, making his own headache intensify.

"You took my mom's car, yammering about Andrew with blood seeping from your nose. Of course I came!"

"Well you shouldn't have." Matt fires the meaningless retort indignantly. He grasps a wad of tissues and wipes his face, turning them bright red almost instantaneously. Part of him wonders how much blood he has left with this nosebleed.

Casey is still holding her video camera, much to Matt's displeasure. Was this all a joke to her? More than anything, seeing her holding the device just made him worry about his cousin, who also had a weird obsession with documenting his life.

"Put the camera Away, Casey" He mutters.

"What?" She doesn't relent with the cameras judgmental stare.

"I said put it away."

"Why?"

"Put the goddamn camera away, Casey!" Matt reaches and yanks the camera from her hands, placing it, less gently that he could imagine Casey would prefer, on the hood of the car.

Casey just stands there in shock at first, then paces a couple steps away from what she would have considered a couple minutes ago her boyfriend, swallowing back nervous tears. Nothing is said between them for ten excruciating, silent seconds. Matt wants to kick himself so hard.

"Casey, I'm sorry. I…"

"I've honestly never seen you this way before." She avoids eye contact, instead gazing distantly at the crowd of police cars gathering at the ground floor of the hospital.

"I didn't mean to flip out at you, Casey. You just can't know what I'm feeling right now." He tenderly tries to make amends. He tries to take a hold of her hand, but she pushes him away.

"It wouldn't have been a problem if just told me just what you're feeling. But I don't know this new Matt; the asshole one that keeps secrets." She trudges a couple steps across the pavement, which is speckled with red dots from Matt. She inhales and opens the driver seat of the car.

"Where are you going?" Matt asks, only to be answered with a door slamming shut.

She starts the engine and pulls out from the curb. A part of Mathew is glad to know she will be safe away from here, away from this mess. The larger, more frantic, portion of him dreads the sense that he's losing her.

He runs up to the driver's window and knocks. Casey rolls down the window but refuses to look directly at him, punching a hole in Matt's heart. He feels ready to do anything, no matter how degrading or difficult, to make her look at him with those adoring eyes like at the party.

"Casey, please listen. I'm sorry. I really am. What do I need to do to convince you to stay?"

A moment of silence passes between the two of them, but Matt can hardly drown out the predatory roaring inside his head. He focuses himself as best as he can as Casey finally looks him in the eye.

"You really want to know how to make me stay? And you'll do anything to make it happen"

"Yes, I will" Matt doesn't take a second to answer

"Okay. Then spill it, everything. What is going on with you, with Andrew? And while I am it, what about Steve? It's normal for people to be changed by the death of a friend, but you've been more stressed out than ever since. So again I ask, what is going on?"

Matt almost spills everything like a cracked water crate. He wants to tell her about the cave, the games, the pranks, the flying, and then about Steve. But instead he just stands there like a statue, unable to move, unable to say anything. Every second he waits, he feels like the end draws closer and closer between him and his girlfriend.

And then he sees it; two reflective drips in the corners of both Casey's eyes. His heart almost stops. She breaks eye contact and puts the car in drive again.

"Casey… I'm sorry," is all he gets out.

"I am too." She brushes hair away from her right eye. "Bye Matt."

The car pulls away, passing a convoy of patrol cars headed for the hospital. Matt wants to run, he tries to run, but he knows, deep in his heart, there was no point. He feels like his entire entity has been violently torn in two; the old, carefree Matt who chased after girls, got into shenanigans versus the new Matt, who is burdened with the cost of keeping secrets. His head is almost ready to explode.

A streetlight near the hospital shatters. Its glass rains down on an unlucky officer nearby. He curses and falls, wounded. His colleagues race to his aid.

Matt pales and wonders if he did that. If so, he may be losing his grip like Andrew. Maybe this was what it felt to be him; to be able to destroy with little more effort than thinking it.

No. He pulls himself back together and turns his attention to the burning hospital again. If he's lucky, he'll have a chance to repair things with Casey, one day. Right now he needed to focus on his cousin, Andrew.

No more hesitating or fearing.

* * *

Mathew makes his way through swelling crowds of people, all awed by the sight of the burning hospital as much as he was. A couple people protest as he pushes through with growing impatience, even knocking a girl over by accident and causing her phone to shatter on the pavement.

"What the hell, man!" She hisses, pulling herself back to her feet.

"Sorry!" Andrew calls back. He forces his way through the crowd away from her before she could call officer, or even worse, one of her possible large friends.

The smoke was asphyxiating in combination with being compressed between people. Did every single person on earth have to gather with their iphones and razors every single time something interesting happened? Now was really not the time.

Like the end of a tree line, the bodies of spectators eventually part, allowing Matt to gulp in fresh but acrid air. The only good thing about being in that crowd, he later noticed, was that it gave him a distraction from the howling in his head, which returned at full force spontaneously. Matt clasps his ears.

The police are already at the sight and preventing spectators from approaching the entrance to the hospital, though seemingly as mesmerized by the scene as anybody else. One of them notices a young man, on his knees, clamping his head and moaning painfully. He approaches Matt.

"Son, are you alright?" He gestures to help the boy up, but Matt shakes his head and stands up on his own.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He coughs into his shoulder. "But I need your help."

"Oh god, my boy, you've got quite the nose bleed here. Did you get into a fight?

"No. Please listen to me. My cousin's up there and I need to get to him. His name is Andrew Detmer." Matt cringes and tries to hide the feeling of white heat in the front of his brain, trying to play it cool.

The officer pulls out a notepad. "Okay, your Cousin is Detmer. D.E.T.M.E.R. Is that correct?"

"Yeah, that's correct" Mathew keeps his eyes on the burning hole in the eleventh floor for any movement as he speaks.

"And do you know what floor he is on?" The officer inquired.

"Eleventh, I think."

"You think? _Thinking_ is a dangerous thing when it means sending firefighters multiple floors up to rescue somebody."

"I'm sure he's up there. Please. You don't even need to send up fire fighters. I can get to him myself. Just let my through. I need to help him!"

The officer frowns and gestures for a couple of his colleagues. One of them is a paramedic, complete with a first aid kit. The group gathers around Matt.

"Boy, I understand your situation, but what it looks like what you need right now is some medical treatment. You look as pale as a ghost and I saw you clenching your head not more than two minutes ago. I think its best you sit back while we sort this out."

"No, you don't understand. It has to be me. I'm the only one who can handle Andrew!" Matt can feel is breathing quicken with anxiety.

A second paramedic pulls forth a stretcher, which Matt can only assume is for him. The other tries to calm Matt down and lead him forward, but he draws back angrily. He can feel the time slip through his fingers with each second he wastes with these two.

"Son, calm down. We're here to help you. Just come with us. We'll get you water and the assistance you need to-"

"Look!" a woman shrieks.

He is broken off by a chorus of cries from the spectators behind them, causing both Matt and the officers to look upwards to the smoke. Matt's eyes widened as he saw the last thing he hoped to see. Andrew is not in danger at all.

He _is _the danger.

The clearing smoke revealed Matt's cousin standing eleven stories from the bottom floor, his hands grasped around the throat of a squirming man. He was screaming words Matt could not make out.

"Andrew!" Matt tries futilely to reach out to his cousin way above, but he is out of earshot. After noticing the lack of attention any of the cops had on him, Mathew makes a bolt for the front doors.

"Hey, hey, hey! Where do you think you're going?" one of the cops realizes his escape and sprints after Mathew.

Matt only takes one look back at the pursuing officers before he forces the doors shut, not with his hands, but with his mind. The officers begin hammering on the bullet proof glass with guns.

Which way was the fastest way up? The stairs would take too long, even with his ability of flight. He could try to take the elevator, but it was likely they had been shut down because of fire. That excluded it as an option, unless.

Matt races to the nearest elevator, focusing, despite the sounds of glass shattering behind him. With one swift action, Matt mentally tears both elevator doors from the mechanism and tosses them aside, not even taking a moment afterwards to recognize is growth in strength.

Just as he thought, the elevator was locked at least twenty floors above, leaving him a clear shaft to fly though. The glass doors behind him shatter. Matt leaps into the barren shaft and rockets towards the eleventh floor, the shouts of officers growing small and hollow within seconds.

He passes five floors, seven floors, ten floors before stopping at the eleventh and punching out the elevator doors like he did below. It doesn't take him long to find where Matt is.

He follows the smoke and the symphony of screams of hate and terror.

* * *

The sight Matt laid his eyes on when he stepped into Andrew's room was like something out of hell.

Machines and tools once used for treatment were now twisted and deformed, fused with the charred wall. The bed in the corner was a knotted and twisted pile of metal and cloth. Spot lights were beaming into the room, revealing every inch of destruction that had been inflicted. And at the gaping hole in the wall, at the far side of the room, was Andrew, his eyes light ablaze with hatred.

Strangely, the insistent howling in Mathew's head had vanished, replaced by the eerie calm of night and the cold chill of Andrew's cutting glare. Matt took two steps forward. As much as he wanted to deny it, he was afraid. He was afraid of his own cousin.

"Andrew," Matt practically whispers. He took another two steps forward. "Andrew, I'm here. It's me. What happened here?"

No answer. Andrew only scowls at Matt, the man Matt now recognized as Richard Detmer still grasped by his neck. Matt dares to take another three steps forward, pushing rubble aside. He asks again.

"Andrew, what happened here?"

"Will you shut up!" Andrew snarls. The outburst causes Matt to feel the entire structure of the room rumble. "Why are _you_ of all people here right now?"

"Cause you're my cousin, Andrew! I sensed you and came as fast as I could!"

"Don't call me your cousin, Matt! I've never been anything to you. You made that clear when we first entered high school."

"That's not true, Andrew! I'm sorry I left you alone! I'm here for you now! Let's just talk this out!"

His words fall on deaf ears.

"And you know what? You've never been anything to me. You and me, we're nothing alike. I'm stronger than all of you!" Andrew's grip tightens on his father, causing a fit of coughing and choking.

"Andrew, stop! You'll kill him!" Matt is both terrified and enraged with his cousin. Half of him wants to beat the life right out of him for causing this much havoc, while the other wishes to embrace him. He's stuck here, trembling.

"And what of it? I've been put through enough of you and everybody else's shit. I'm done! From now on, I crush those who hurt me, starting today with this asshole!" At this comment, Andrew's father sobs out loud.

"Shut up!" Andrew shouts and his father does just that, barely whimpering. He proceeds to hold his father directly out of the building, one slip away from falling stories to his death. He flails in the wind, panicked.

Matt's throat tightens up and tears form in his eyes as the reality of the situation dawns on him. "It's not too late. I promise you, things can change and they will. But only if you stop this right here, right now."

"Andrew…" Whatever words Richard Detmer was forming are crushed as Andrew tightens his grip again. Then his intense scowl lightens to a delirious grin. His chest bobs up and down in compressed giggles, like Matt had said something absurd or hilarious.

"No, Matt. I promise you, things have changed."

"Andrew, please!" Matt takes another two steps towards his cousin, sensing what was about to come. He doesn't hear, but sees Andrew form words with his mouth.

"What?"

Andrew's grin ceases. His expression is hard to make out, partially clouded by shadows from the spotlights and partially from his messy hair. All Matt can make out are two loathsome eyes, the eyes of a beast, staring into his soul.

"I'm an apex predator."

And he let go.

Everything happens in slow motion to Matt; the final look of maddened fear on his uncle's face as he falls to his death is burned into his mind permanently. Unable to contain himself, Matt throws himself at Andrew, his rage and sadness forming a beast to match the sheer hatred of Andrew.

But Andrew does not even flinch. With the ease of a single gesture, he throws Matt through the wall of the room, crashing through the next and the next afterwards. Matt's world is nothing but pain and dizziness before he gives in, allowing the approaching darkness to take him.

There's sky. And in the sky, there are three boys flying, calling, playing, laughing, and then nothing.

* * *

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**June 22, 2012**


	2. Chapter 1

**A Requiem for Who You Were**

**By Auel the Winter**

**Chapter 1: Should've Just Stayed Home**

Matt was still adjusting to his life inside the city, rather than the suburbs. In the corner of the room is his bed, an unwelcoming metal frame with a yellow, crusty bed roll. The floorboards are rotten, cracking beneath his every step. In the far corner of the room, Matt can make out a picture frame of a young looking family, the glass now clouded with dust. He walks directly into a cob web as he stepped farther into the room, spitting the threads from his mouth disgustedly.

It feels just like summer camp.

"Normally, I would have taken the time to do some spring cleaning in here, but it wasn't as though I was given any notice in advance. You'll just have to bear with it for now. What did you say your name was again, boy?"

"Just call me Matt." He turned away from the awry room and faced the bulky figure in the doorway.

The man steps into the room and fumbles with the three light switches in the room, only two of which did anything at all. Flickering at first, the light bulb in the center of the room illuminates and gives Matt another clear look at his host.

He is unshaven, stout and with wrinkles all over his face, probably in his late fifties. Any other person would have guessed that he came from the Canadian wilderness. Matt, on the other hand, knew who this man was through his father. He recognizes the estranged figure as the 'fish man' when his father brought him down the sea market on Saturdays. Only day after the hospital incident, Matt had decided the safest place was with somebody he knew, but barely knew.

"Ah, of course. But do I know you from somewhere. The name rings a bell with me." He mutters, scratching the back of his hairy neck.

Matt just smiles weakly. "When I was twelve, my dad always bought your seafood for dinner on the weekend. I mainly came to see you juggle fish though."

The man's features scrunch up in deep thought. Then a deep belly laugh erupts from the hairy man; the kind you get only when you look back on something from a long time ago. "I knew your face was familiar when you showed up at my shop. But my God have you grown. If my memory serves me alright, you must be taller than him now, surely."

"I get that a lot." Matt chuckles

"Boy, normally we would hold a fish throwing contest to welcome you, but I got surgery not more than half a year ago and my back aches like a fish demon's mother. I hope a seafood buffet will suffice for a growing lad."

Matt tries to stay humble, but he hadn't eaten in at least a week, unable to return home and unable to appear in public because of that night. Envious saliva escapes from one corner of his mouth at the mention of the word "seafood".

The fisherman notices and laughs. "You can hide it all you want, lad. Your body tells the whole story. I'll tell Donna to start on it soon. In the mean time, you can get all set up in here. Just try to avoid getting any splinters in your feet. I would have been able to afford floor repairs if it weren't for this gosh darn surgery."

He takes his leave from the room, accidentally tearing out a rotten floorboard on his way, cussing like a sailor. Its only when Matt hears him reach the last step downstairs that he closes the door to his room. He sighs and drops his baggage onto the brittle floor.

He wishes he had brought more. Two changes of clothes, a novel, a tooth brush and a half empty roll of toothpaste were somehow unlikely to get him through the rest of his life. Not to mention school. Any educational prospects he had a month ago were lost. He's now a fugitive on the run, with only the hope of being able to suppress the secret of his powers. At best, the old man of the sea will give him a job with the market place. He shivers at he thought anyways.

Worst of all, now that he's in this quiet room, undisturbed, alone, the depressing thoughts of last month just keep returning, depriving him of inner peace. How long did it feel for Mr. Detmer before he hit the pavement? Did he feel any pain? But the greatest question of all was whether or not there was anything he could have done to stop Andrew.

Stop.

Matt was pretty sure in Macbeth, somebody said something about going insane from regret. He never paid attention in English, but the point was made now more than ever. He seriously needed any distraction he could find.

He pulls out his cell phone and checks his history, which is brimming with messages from his mother. Maybe he could phone somebody. Maybe he could get at least a minute of conversation out of Casey, but that would likely be stretching the bill. He picks up the phone.

He just had to talk to somebody. Hearing the voice of any other human being would be a god send, especially after hiding in the alleys, in the sewers, in dumpsters for at least two weeks straight, hiding from the police.

Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, Matt pulls out a wad of papers. Receipts, old movie tickets and a list of phone numbers from the many girls he hit on in school. Some were from elementary school. Near the top of the list was Monica.

Monica. Perhaps no girl on Earth caused Andrew more grief than her. He still remembered Steve coming down stairs from the party, his face colored awkward and confused. When Matt asked what happened between Andrew and Monica, he just shook his head and said "man". He wouldn't later tell what happened to Andrew that night, but Matt decided it was best kept secret judging by Andrew's following depression.

He hated her, but also missed her in a weird way. She was part of a life he wished to have back immensely. Matt decides it's better to face something painful than go on like he was right now, without a friend. Besides, damn was she ever a fox.

He dials Monica's number.

The voice that answers the phone is indeed Monica. Matt can recognize the energetic tone.

"Hello? Monica here."

Matt opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He had no plan and no way to speak to this ghost of his past. It felt like it had to have been more than a month since he last saw her. The phone line remains silent.

"Hello? You gonna talk? I'm gonna hang up if this is some stupid pocket dial."

Still, Matt's reluctant muteness persists. He cringes at how creepy this must be for Monica on the other end of the line. For all she knew, she could be talking to some phone-stalking pervert.

"Seriously, hello? Is there anybody there?" she sounds agitated. "Alright, you snooze you lose. Seeya."

"Wait, Monica!" Matt finally manages to sputter, causing the shuffling sounds on the other end of the line to pause.

"Matt? Is that you?" Matt hears Monica answer.

"Yeah, it's me."

There's a pause between him and Monica. "I knew it!"

"You did?"

Monica laughs. "It's called caller ID, dumbass. I was just worried that I might have been talking to some creepy investigator that snatched your phone. I'm just glad you kept it. Where the hell have you been, Matt? You're all over the news."

Matt chews on his lower lip at that comment. He was hoping at the very least that the news camera wouldn't catch him actually at the top of the hospital. But his hopes proved false. He collects his thoughts and answers.

"I'm not surprised. Do you have a moment to talk? There are some questions I have and only you can help answer them."

"Sure, no problemo. Just give me a second." There's the sound of more shuffling, and a then he hears a door slam shut. She's whispering now. "OK, now let's talk. But I'm not going to take any chances with getting dragged into this mess, understand?"

"I wouldn't expect you to, Monica. You're doing me a favor be just talking with me. First of all, what is the news saying about me?"

"They're calling you a runaway. You were last seen at your parent's home a week after the hospital bombing.

"Hospital bombing?"

"No duh. You should know what I'm talking about. I heard you were at the scene with everybody else."

That part makes sense to Matt. Despite the eye witnesses to his and Andrew's usage of powers, the news would blackout all reports of it from reaching the air. His chances of staying hidden are better if he isn't targeted by hunters of the paranormal.

"Right. That's good to hear." Matt sighs.

"Good? What have you been doing these past weeks? Your family is worried sick. They showed up on live Television pleading for people who have information about where you might be. Where are you?"

"I can't tell you that, Monica. I have my reasons."

"Is it really worth putting your own family through this!" she snaps back. "I should honestly report you! I'm getting sick and tired of seeing your mother crying on Fox News every single night."

Matt just notices that his left hand is balled tight and shaking. He really is a bastard; doing this to his mother and father. On the other hand, he's unsure of whether he's angry with himself, or just the world.

"What about Casey?" He finally summons the nerve to ask. "Have you heard anything from her?"

"Casey? No. She only appeared on the news once and she didn't say much. Only that she last saw you on the night of the hospital bombing."

"But she's okay, right?" Matt persists.

"Why is Casey so important right now? Your family is out there looking for you. At least let me know if you're alright."

"I am. I am, so don't sweat. I haven't left Seattle, but that's all I can tell you. Right now… Things are just too complicated for me to come home."

Matt stands up from the bed and brushes away the dust from his window. Despite all its shortcomings, this room had a spectacular view of the space needle, towering over the rest of the city in a brilliant illumination of the night sky.

"Think of it this way: if you can see the space needle from your house, then you know I'm not too far away."

"Keep giving hints and I'm gonna have to spill eventually, Matt. I won't question what's going on between you and your family right now, but just be careful." This may have been the very first time Matt heard a different kind of Monica; one that was separate from the guy loving, popularity craving diva he knew. She was just sincere. It made him smile.

"Don't worry, and thanks. I'm glad we could talk." Matt prepares to wrap this up. He can already smell an aroma of cooked muscles and halibut radiating from downstairs.

"One more thing, Matt." Monica presses. Matt takes his thumb off of the end call button on his cell phone.

"What?"

"…If…If…" His heart is pierced with dread when he hears her sob over the line. "If you are staying with anybody, don't let them see the news! Stay in hiding, Matt. Stay…"

All that follows is the sounds of Monica's screams growing distant, and hear hears her phone drop to the floor, only to be picked up by somebody else. He hears shouting, and violence; the sound of kicks, slaps, and other things that disturb him. His heart sinks as, bit by bit, he comes to accept what had been going on the entire conversation. Every single thing she said, mentioned, was forced out of her, most likely at gun point. Only at the last second did she try to warn him.

"Monica. Monica! Monica, what's going on?" Matt yells.

The phone line goes dead, followed by a silence eerie beyond belief. Matt just stands there, feeling Fooled, used, standing with his cell phone at his side. His eyes water with fright. What's going to happen to Monica? Even more so, what does this mean for everybody he knows? The smell of seafood now makes him sick.

Donna is playing_ Ode to Joy_ on the piano downstairs, causing vibrations throughout the splintering floorboards. Matt decides to lie down on the bed. He tries his best to block out the real world, instead focusing his thoughts on each note plunked from the piano and the obnoxious singing of the fisherman in tune with it. But nothing works. Only one thought circles through Matt's mind, as his fresh tears soak his pillow.

"Damn it all…"

* * *

"Damn it all!" Andrew growled out loud, after stepping into a soggy, freezing rain puddle in bare feet for the one thousandth consecutive time. Those three words very easily described his entire existence. God damn puddles, God damn burns, God damn cops, cameras, cousins and fathers.

Traveling through the city was a God damn nightmare; having detour, limping, through every single alley way to avoid discovery. It would have been so much more satisfying to simply rip the head off of any officer that tried to stop him.

But he was too weak; too weak to carry on like this. He glanced down at his arms, which were exposed to third degree burns courtesy of the marriage between a loaded shotgun and fuel tank. With every single step he took, he felt more dead skin peel of the soles of his bare feet. If it weren't for his gift pushing him onwards, it would have been simple to roll over and die. He was too weak.

No!

He was strong. He showed them all just that. He showed the world how weak they are compared to him. They're all weak. He, on the other hand, is strong. Powerful. Apex Predator. Apex Predat…

Dizzy, he trips over a curb and face plants in his next puddle, this time without getting up. He groans and allowing himself to close his eyes for five minutes tops. Ten would also be nice. But he's brought back by the sensation of wetness on his underside. Did he just pee himself?

Apex predator.

His hospital gown is soaked. The easiest thing for him to have done would be toss the darn thing away and trek onwards. But there was something rather unsettling about the thought of him, battling his way through cops, half naked, half burnt. So he left it on.

What was this? He was so superior a month ago. So what happened to the apex predator? The high of rage and hatred only lasted him so long. Now, he was only left with an empty heart full of regrets and resentments.

Where was everybody now? Where was his cousin? Was he out there, having fun with his new girl friend, screwing away the days without damn thought about his cousin in mind? Where was Steve? He didn't mean for _it_ to happen! Where was dad?

_You killed him, remember?_

"I didn't mean to do it…"

_Like you didn't mean to kill Steve?_

"I didn't want any of this."

_Of course you didn't. who would? But you went and did it anyways, you piece of garbage._

"Shut up."

_You can't shut me up. Actually, there is one way. See that sky scraper over there? Ride it to the roof and take a flying leap. Bring your miserable existence to an end, you filth._

"Leave me alone!" Andrew forces himself to stand up, gasping painfully in doing so. He is just in time.

A patrol car pulls up at the alleyway, its headlights lighting up a sickly and severely injured teenager. The two cops don't waste time pulling out their firearms. They instantly recognize the boy from a month ago.

It was the father killer.

"Freeze! Stand right up against the wall with your hands above your head! Do as I say and you will not be harmed."

Andrew writhes and bends over, feeling ready to vomit. "Go to hell!" he hisses.

"I won't give you another warning! Stand against the wall with your hands above your head. Do it!"

"I said go to hell!" Andrew prepares a force field, but his endurance peters out after only a couple of seconds after invoking it. He's finished.

His legs give and he drops to the pavement, exhausted. In the corner of his eye, Andrew can make out the two cops lowering their weapons, but keeping caution as they approach his miserable form on the ground.

"I'm…Not done yet…Apex…" Andrew slurs into the face of the pavement, his arms nor legs doing any good in lifting him.

"Get an ambulance down here! We're losing the suspect!" One of the officers races to his patrol car and returns with a first aid kit in case Andrew passes out.

The other officer attempts to take a hold of Andrew's wrists for cuffing, but Andrew lashes back violently. He manages to mentally force him a couple feet back, startled.

"Get away from me!" Andrew rasps, glaring daggers into the cop. He prepares a second mind assault.

The second one, noticing the immediate threat, pulls out his handgun and takes the shot, exploding Andrew's right shoulder. He screams in pain.

He's on the ground, bleeding to death. Vision is blurring. Surrounding sounds are becoming faint and distant. Andrew allows his head to fall to his right side, seeing the blurry cops continue their work.

But as they make their second approach, the air is pierced by a whizzing sound. Andrew can tell its close, only a couple inches above him. One of the cops falls and a familiar puddle forms around his body. The second one's head explodes into fragments only a second later, allowing the rest of the cop to slump to the ground lifelessly.

The whizzing stops and is replaced by the gentle dripping of rain on the pavement. Andrew, though nearly delirious, can make out several figures holding sub machine guns in the distance, coming closer to him.

"There he is."

"Brendan, get some towels from the van. We'll use that first aid kit."

"Let's hurry."

"He's no use to father Aidan if he's dead."

* * *

**Thanks for reading and please review**

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**June 23, 2012**


	3. Chapter 2

**A Requiem for Who You Were**

**By Auel the Winter**

**Chapter 2: One of Us**

When Casey first opened her eyes at the crack of morning a month ago, she was nearly blinded by the show of lights bursting through her bedroom window. Her parents later found her in the afternoon, not attending school, but sitting in front of the T.V with an ice pack over her head and a ridiculous pair of shades. Her father laughed. In fact, he laughed _really_ hard.

"I didn't recall inviting Lindsay Lohan over. Also, where the hell is my daughter?" he said.

When she continued complaining about constant headaches and nausea, her parents took her to the doctors. But she came out clean. No sickness. No nothing. It was what many doctors referred to as a medical mystery. Unfortunately, that didn't put a lid on Casey's mom about brain cancer and CAT scans. The doctor simply recommended that Casey keep curtains over her window since it seemed that it caused her reaction in the first place.

This morning, Casey groggily rises from her bed, this time undisturbed due to a fresh set of blinds over her window. She grunts as she takes her first step out, at first noticing a prickly, tingly sensation in her left leg; the kind you get when you sit cross legged for far too long. She stumbles but catches herself on her clothing rack. It really was something new each morning.

Today was a Wednesday morning, or as she like to call "Hump Day". She hated "Hump Day". In all likeliness, she was going to be bombarded with physics notes and assigned another two chapters from _Macbeth_.

She did, however, share a class with Monica though; an upside to the day. Monica had been one of the last people at her school to interact with Andrew Detmer before the incident and Andrew was very close with Matt. Therefore, a connection had bridged between the two girls; one of uncertainty and concern, yet providing of comfort in the sense that they both felt the same way.

Matt…

It was a name that filled her with both sadness and irritation. What happened that night was just overwhelming compared to what she had been living up to that point. Matt was unwilling to share with her, despite how close they had been. Who was he really? Ever since the hospital, Casey had been in limbo, desiring to talk to Matt, but afraid of what she would hear. For this reason, she decided to remove him from her contacts on her cell phone.

She goes through each and every chore of her morning with little care. Showers were once her way of coping with stress, but the minutes by herself starting teasing her with memories of last month. In the mirror, she sees a pale looking girl staring back at her with sunken eyes. Sleep was of little use to her anymore.

She trudges downstairs, a drying cloth still hanging loosely off the side of her head. Her mother is sitting by the fireplace as usual, watching her favorite crime channel on television. Casey thought her mom was too obsessed with crime stories involving kidnappers, rapists, child murders, and eventually father killers. There's a video feed of local hospital, still with an ugly hole punched into it. Only at commercial break does Casey finally step into the kitchen.

"Morning, Casey. Did you sleep in?" Casey's mom says, pouring herself a mug of black coffee.

"Not really. Why?"

Her farther, sitting at the kitchen table, glances from the auto dealer article of his beloved newspaper.

"I'd say something about the dripping hair and shirt being backwards, but I'll just settle for 'you look tired'"

Casey then notices the lack of logos or art on the front of her white T shirt. She sheepishly readjusts it and sits down at the table. Her father appears keeps his attention glued to the paper as best as possible, but Casey can tell he's keeping one concerned eye on her. The same could be said for her mother, who sneaks glances at her daughter while Casey reads an article from the paper herself.

It was weird. Living in her home ever since her sensitivity to light had left an eerie feeling in the house; the one left in a home when a loved one just returns from the hospital after suffering a heart attack. Her parents were carefully observing her every move and have been for weeks now. Her mother smiles, her father smiles, but nothing seems right anymore. Life felt like one big, unending charade.

She nearly jumps out of her chair when a plate of eggs and bacon lands in front of her face. It's the champion of breakfasts and her personal favorite, but she feels no temptation to eat. Not wanting to break her Dad's heart, she finishes quickly, though feeling miserably bloated afterwards.

The bus was coming in two minutes.

"Heading out already, Casey?" Her mother asks, turning away from The T.V. Her father glances at her mom and then resumes his reading in the sports section.

"Yeah; I always head out at this time don't I?" Casey responds.

"Of course you do. I must be forgetting things. Well, have a wonderful day at school, dear."

Casey rolls her eyes."With English? I'll try."

She takes her first step out the door before being called back by her father, who hands her the backpack she'd almost forgotten. Casey _thought_ she felt too light for some reason. A surprise hug from her mother was the last interruption before she finally was on her way to the bus stop. Her thoughts as she walked down the damp pavement were the same as those she had been thinking for weeks.

"What the hell is going on?"

* * *

At school, it's like Casey had wished for peace and normality on opposite day. Posters line the street lights on the way, displaying two very familiar faces. They all read as follows:

"Andrew Detmer and Matt Garety; wanted for the murder of Richard Detmer. Any person with information on their whereabouts will be highly rewarded, starting at $100,000 each."-Seattle police department.

One hundred thousand each! That was just the starting reward. Seeing Matt's face on a wanted poster on every surface in the city is disturbing, but what's a discomfort to her most is her lack of sureness within herself that Matt's innocent. If he is, why would he be so determined to hide things from her back then?

All throughout the morning, School was business as usual, but filled with conversation about Matt and Andrew. Casey tried to resist, but couldn't help filter the backstabbing chatter directed at the two boys. Every single time she tried to focus on a new paragraph in _Macbeth_, her thoughts would be derailed by somebody snickering at the mention of either of the boys.

"Casey Letter?" Mr. Harris breaks her out of her day dreaming, causing her to scramble for her last paragraph incase he asked her to read.

"Yes?" She sputters.

"Ah, so you are alive. In that case, would you like to refresh the rest of the class on what a tragic climax is and when it occurs in _Macbeth_?"

All eyes in the class are on her, piercing her with judgmental leers. She can guess why too. She was with Matt not more than a month ago as more than "just friends". She cursed his name for causing her this kind of awkwardness. After taking a moment to breath, she speaks like nothing out of the normal has occurred.

"A tragic climax is the point within a tragedy when the protagonist-"

She's cut off by chuckles and snickers, coming from the two village idiots of the class, Larson and Drake. Since the beginning of semester two, they'd been the prime focus of the wrath of Mr. Harris, especially with misconduct such as interruptions. This time, their wise cracks were focused at Casey; she could tell.

"Pardon me, Ms. Letter, but we have a couple gentlemen in our class who've yet to learn the meaning of attention and respect." Mr. Harris interrupts, turning his sights on Larson and Drake, who are grinning, giggling and nudging each other obnoxiously.

The classroom freezes with the teacher's unrelenting glare on the two trouble makers. One of the two clears his throat and tries to fake reading his book, while the other only challenges Dawson back with a smug grin. The silent standoff lasts ten seconds.

Harris breaks the silence. "Well, I'm sure you can review over your behavior during your time in detention this lunch. The same goes for you Drake. I will not tolerate interruptions, especially when it's another student taking the time to educate you on what you failed to pay attention to yesterday, like always. Don't waste anymore of my time, boys; on your way." He gestures to the door with his pencil in hand.

Larson glares, but leaves with his bag dragging on the tiled floor. Drake continues grinning devilishly as he exits and his stare shifts over to Casey for a brief moment, sending chills down her spine. The door shuts, leaving Harris and the rest of the class silent. All eyes returns to Casey.

"Please excuse them, Casey. If you don't mind, would you start over for the rest of us who care about passing this course?"

Casey does not respond. She's entranced by the pencil sketch drawings in the columns beside the text of the Shakespearean play. There's Banqou's ghost, haunting the awestruck Macbeth at the feast hall, striking terror beyond comprehension into his heart. Somehow, she feels the same as the fraudulent king; being haunted by a ghost presenting things beyond her understanding.

Matt...

"Ms. Letter?" Mr. Harris repeats.

She blinks absentmindedly."Sorry, sir."

"Are you feeling alright, Ms. Letter?"

She manages to tear herself from the intoxicating stare of Macbeth from her book and gazes at the rest of the class. Their facial features express not concern, but fear, distrust, malice and even hatred. Being with Matt was like being hexed and now everybody was on a witch hunt.

"I'm fine, sir." She regains composure, resisting the glares from the predators encompassing her.

"Then if you would please continue, that would be wonderful."

"The tragic climax in _Macbeth is_ when Macbeth decides it is easier for him to go on committing evil deeds than it would be to return to his older self in the beginning."

"That's excellent, Ms. Letter." Mr. Harris, apparently satisfied with her answer continues to ramble about his interpretation of the tragic climax in the story, while Casey hastily takes the opportunity to sit down and avoid anymore unwanted attention. She nearly buries herself in notes, books and even homework from other classes as a distraction.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she can make out Tawny scribbling something on the back of some English notes, then folding it and passing it on to the next person, who then passes onto the next. It's headed towards her slowly to avoid detection by Mr. Harris.

Her palms are sweaty, her are fingers trembling, but she does her best not to show intimidation as the notes nears her desk. What could they possibly want from her? Did they want answers, somebody to scream at, a scapegoat for Matt's actions? The possibilities were horrifyingly endless.

The note arrives in the hands of Carl, her desk partner. On the outside of the folded piece of paper is scribbled "To Casey". Carl looks it over, obviously tempted to open it, but he resists, instead gesturing it towards Casey. She hesitates in taking it at first, but decides that waiting might catch the teacher's attention. She takes the slip of paper

The words, and their tone, resonate in her head.

_We saw. We know things. We were there that night._

_7:30, at the tennis court, alone. Be there. We have matters to discuss._

_P.S: Don't show up and we'll personally make it our goal to make the rest of 2012 a living hell for you._

She closes the slip and hides it underneath her binder, not glancing back to the sender of the message. There's still an entire block left of this unbearable discomfort. At least she would have quite a story for Monica in physics. Right now, she felt like she could use a shoulder to cry on.

Today was only getting more and more blown out of proportion.

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep_

Andrew tries to flex his hand, but it's been practically mummified with bandages and casts. It's a living hell worse than being confined to his bed in the hospital a month ago. Every thirty minutes there's a buzzing of some sort and he can feel a stinging sensation in all of his limbs and in his neck. He guesses that's from the IV tubes attached to him, pumping some kind of acidic venom into his blood, mocking him with a slower and more painful death. He is no longer thankful for his rescue last night.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Everything in this room is a nuisance. The IVs, the heart monitors, and especially the lights over head encourage him to break free of this living nightmare. But he was simply too exhausted to pull off what he did at the hospital again. Not even his powers will answer to in his condition; he tested multiple times on distant objects in the room like tables, flower pots, syringes and more. Nothing happened.

The room is silent, but Andrew knows his not alone. There a figure, a guard sitting at the edge of the room with his feet propped on the desk. A submachine gun rests on the table next to his feet. Very clever; these people clearly understand that even a dead snake can strike.

What was this place? He could tell that it certainly wasn't a hospital. The walls are cheap and the paint is flaking off. There are no windows, but there are corkboards posted along the wall with various articles from the _Seattle Times_. At least he was still in his home town. If he doesn't die here in this bed, he'll be sure to decimate this crummy shack and all its inhabitants; they probably don't matter much anyways if they can only afford to live here.

_Tell me. What value do you place on the lives of others? How do you compare yours with the worth of theirs?_

And right when he thought things couldn't get any worse, it appears. The answer is not hard to conceive. From the beginning when he obtained his gift, he no longer to bow to societal standards. That is the natural order of nature, the reason why one lower being's death should mean nothing to him. That was what it meant to be an apex predator.

_But last night you begging for one of those "lower beings" to come to your rescue. For one who identifies himself as unmatched, you sure seem to hold a lot of attachment to your cousin._

Matt? Matt didn't regard Andrew or treat him decently like a human being. He left Andrew for a bunch of nobodies he met the first day of high school. He was the same as everybody else: shallow, short sighted, cruel, despicable, and willing to capitalize at the cost of other's benefit like a weed.

Everybody was nothing more than weeds.

_But you are a human just like anybody else. Doesn't that make you a "weed" as well? For somebody who accuses others of being short sighted, you continually fail to see the big picture._

People are so selfish. For as long as he could remember, all Andrew had done his entire life was run errands, buy medicine and do whatever he could so that his mother could live one more day. His father, the son of a bitch, stole money from him with a different excuse each time. Andrew knew for a fact that the money not going towards helping his mother; probably liquor. People are such selfish assholes. He's different.

_Are you? Take a guess at how much medicine you could have bought for your mother with the money which you, oh so cleverly, spent on a video camera to document your pathetic, suck-ass life? Had you not bought that camera, your mother would be alive today. Who is selfish now, Andrew?_

Shut up…

_You're really no different, are you? It's so sad to have to converse with one as delusional as yourself._

Shut up…

_Haha! The "apex predator" can't even decide who he is!_

_Shut. Up._

_Hypocrite! Loser! Sicko!_

Shut up!

The heart monitor skyrockets in pace abruptly, grabbing the immediate attention of the guard. He curses and pulls out his communicator. Almost seconds later, a medic bursts through the doors to the room, medical supplies ready. He checks Andrew's eye dilation and find nothing out of the normal. His breathing is ragged, though stabilizing, and none of wounds have been accidentally reopened. The medic gestures the guard away, signaling the situation to be under control.

"Not to worry. He's likely just woken up and startled. This is to be expected."

"Yeah, but the heart monitor just went nuts faster than you can say 'Jesus Christ'. Are you sure the thing's working properly?" The guard is gripping his submachine gun with it pointed at Andrew. His finger is trembling around the trigger.

The medic sighs. "It's new. There's nothing I can imagine that would be wrong with it. Please, resume your normal duty. Everything is fine."

"I should hope so." an unheard voice says. Andrew's eyes shift towards the open door, where the distant voice came from. In enters a man, looking thirtyish, with long and black hair. His eyes are gentle looking and don't appear to be focusing on anybody in the room in particular. "And I hope, for your sake, that you point that weapon away from our guest, George."

The guard obeys without hesitation, giving plenty of space between Andrew and the figure of unquestioned authority. The medic follows suit and stands at the back of the room. Gradually, the man strides towards Andrew, his soft eyes coming to rest on the boy. Andrew is unsure whether or not to relax or to kick, scream, and fly away. Upon meeting eyes with the man, he chooses the former. The figure's penetrating gaze is electrifying.

He comes to sit beside Andrew's bedside and leans over the boy, his locks of raven hair resting on Andrew's face. Andrew feels the man's hands rest on the sides of his head. They're large and warm. He doesn't dare even look away.

"I know who you are. I know what you are, Andrew Detmer, son of Richard Detmer. I've been searching for you for a life time."

Andrew feels so uncomfortable; he's never been approached in such a mutual manner. Hell, it would be awkward for anybody. But he continues looking into the man's eyes, feeling so much smaller than the apex predator.

"My name is Father Aidan. I apologize for the surroundings. Believe me, when you are out of this bed, we will be leaving for my more luxurious home. I want you as a part of my family, Andrew. You are free to make your own decisions, but I promise to give you enough reason to come with me. You and I are quite alike."

Andrew breathes for what feels like the first time only when the man calling himself Father Aidan stands from the bedside. What just happened? Father Aidan smiles.

"Forgive me. You've just gained consciousness and here I am overwhelming you. For now, rest up and become healthy. I will visit routinely, keeping you company. I thank God every day now that we were able to meet, Andrew." He takes striding steps towards the exit, nodding at the guard and medic on the way out. The silence afterwards is uninterrupted, save the beeping of the annoying heart monitor.

Andrew's hands are shaking and they don't show any signs of stopping. Is he frightened or just excited? The line between them is so blurry to him. His thoughts are broken by an intense stinging sensation in all his limbs. He squirms, but the medic and guard hold him down secure. Eventually, the pumping stops and so does the stinging.

The medic releases his grip and removes his mouth cover. "I know it's painful, but Father requested we inject you with a tissue rebuilding serum to boost your recovery. Without it, your recovery will take no shorter than six months with those burns. With it, you'll be out of here in a week."

So much for poison.

"Father Aidan can perform miracles. His gift to you is life." The guard adds. "But in return, we'll have to ask a favor of you."

Andrew can't speak, but he raises an eyebrow to get his point across. It is noticed by the medic, who clears his throat. The guard and the medic speak at the same time.

"Andrew Detmer, Father Aidan wants you to become one of us."

* * *

**Thanks for reading and please review.**

**Visit profile for updates on the story.**

**June 25, 2012**


	4. Chapter 3

**A Requiem for Who You Were**

**By Harlander Tavern**

**Chapter 3: Tools of War**

For possibly the first time this year, Casey's physics block is fully attended. The student body is filled with murmurs and conversation about the upcoming final exam in two weeks. There was only one desk in the entire classroom that wasn't hosting a student; the desk right next to Casey. Monica hadn't shown up today.

Lacking somebody to share her situation with, Casey allows thoughts from English block to sink into her, rising fresh questions to add to her already weighted conscience. Her hair stands on end when when she wonders if there was still anybody glaring daggers into her. Luckily, nobody from her last class is here.

Whether or not she should comply with the message she was given is the most pressing matter to her. If there was something that Tawny and others wanted to talk to her about, she could only imagine what it would be about. The three first sentences in the message are her first clue.

_We saw. We know things. We were there that night…_

Casey was more than one hundred percent sure that they were referring to the hospital bombing, but what does she have to do with all of this? The alibi she would likely give to Tawny would be simple: she had a fight with Matt and drove home, leaving him behind. Would they buy a story so simple yet so vague? And what consequences would there be for not being able to convince her? With a girl as disturbingly mysterious as Tawny, anything was possible.

Not more than two years ago, Tawny herself was sociable and outgoing; not to mention a progressively active girl in the community. Although Casey wouldn't consider herself a friend of the girl, the two of them briefly worked together on a film project for drama class: a spoof of middle school life circling around a werewolf, a vampire, and a ghost. Tawny was the one who insisted on their project being about the supernatural, as she was a devout fan to horror and fantasy. This unusual lasted the rest of middle school, as she was always one of the main organizers of the Halloween dances, costume contests, and other events that made coming to school just a little more bearable, and even fun sometimes.

When Tawny entered high school, ghosts and goblins were replaced with shirtless boys and illegal substances. Her marks dropped, as well as her enthusiasm and ambition, which was more than partially due to the abortion she had in second year. The laughing, giggly and lovable girl that Casey met briefly in middle school was replaced by a grim and snappy fashion queen. It was like the reverse of metamorphosis in butterflies. Along with herself, thousands of teenagers went through these experimental and superficial phases; Tawny simply never coped and certainly never recovered from her changes.

Casey doesn't completely blame her, but she freely admits Tawny's longstanding poor decision making skills and judgment. Her lowlife friends weren't entirely at fault for her situation. If She was ever to make a comeback in life, her obsessiveness and desperate need for attention would have to be the first demon of her soul to die rather than her goon friends.

In contrast, it was those lowlifes that scared Casey most. Meeting with Tawny normally wouldn't have been an issue, but now she drags around close to 600 pounds of muscle force in her guy friends, many of which had deep rooted behavior disorders. If Casey shows up at the tennis courts like she planned, she knows the worst thing she could possibly do would be to go alone.

But who could she possibly bring? It would be unfair for her to drag any random kid into a situation with such a potential to turn ugly. The only person in the world she knows that would be for her now was Matt Garety.

Where was he now?

Like she is under the trance of hypnosis, Casey's eyes take in equation after equation, transmitting information to her brain to be processed, solved, and written down under the question. Her mind is elsewhere, trying fruitlessly to make sense of her approaching dilemma.

A knock on the door grabs the attention of many students who were moments ago hard at work preparing for the final exam. Mr. Lester, Casey's physics teacher, rises from his seat and answers the class door, stepping back slightly at the figure that enters the room.

The man is a cop, fully dressed and armed. His expression is obscured with shadows partially cast over his eyes from his uniforms cap. Casey makes out the badge over his left breast reading S.S.A.T.F; her guess at what that exactly meant was as good as anybody else's.

Mr. Lester tries to introduce himself, but the officer simply nods and walks past him with apparent disinterest. confused, the physics teacher readjusts his glasses before following the officer as he invades the teacher's domain. The "guest" takes in his surroundings through shrouded eyes.

By now, most concentration of studying has been dissolved by the "guest" appearance. His gaze gradually shifts from each end of the class, almost taking in the faces of each and every student. The officer then locks eyes with Casey, which she reacts to by nearly shoving her face into her equations.

"So what class is this? If I didn't know any better, I'd say everybody is studying for a test today." He approaches the tensed students casually.

"That's correct, officer. They all have a final exam coming up in two weeks, so it's important that they take days like this to review." Mr. Lester explains.

"Then I've come in at the right time. Your last block ends at 3:10, 3:20?" The officer asks.

"3:25." A front row student responds.

"That works too."

Mr. Lester frowns."Wait a second here, officer. If I may ask, what is your business interrupting my class?"

"Professional business, sir." The officer removes his hat and places it on the desk of the nearest student. He then addresses the entire class. "My name is Officer Neil Aristide and I'm here to ask you guys some questions. I won't force any of you participate, but I'd appreciate your cooperation greatly. Anybody who helps may be rewarded depending on your answers and I will respect you if you'd rather go unnamed."

"Pardon me, Officer Aristide, but my students are responsible for preparing for a test consisting of twenty percent of their final mark. Perhaps this is not the best time to be asking them things. Maybe we could arrange some other time for you to swing by and carry on with your 'police' business." Mr. Lester's eyes furrow with frustration, visibly dismayed and insulted by the officer's override of the classroom.

"I'll take out each student individually, while _you_ carry on with your 'teacher' business." The officer returns.

With a resentful and indignant face, Mr. Lester returns to his desk, slightly avoiding the eyes of his students. He presses a fresh pencil into his personal sharper, producing a horrible whine almost alike the yowls of a dying cat. His square glasses shimmer off the light peaking through the blind folds.

"Very well."

* * *

At a closer glance, Mr. Aristide isn't nearly as intimidating as he seemed during his unexpected entrance.

His eyes look harmless, but they are fixed with a semi scowl of annoyance. His collar is partially flipped upwards and his tie is slightly lopsided. Casey's best guess is that Officer Neil Aristide was anything but a morning person.

Casey takes two awkward steps into the band room where he arranged for interviews to be conducted, slightly unsure as to whether or not Officer Aristide was ready for her. He has his pointer and ring finger over his eyes, gazing slightly at the nearest cello case. His left hand rests lazily on a stack of folders labeled after student names. He fails to spare the student at the end of the room even a glance at first.

"Hey." Casey finally breaks the silence, but is still content to reside by the door.

Officer Aristide breaks his staring match with the cello at last and Casey slightly reels back when she looks into his sunken and shadowed eyes. He merely sighs and puts the finishing touches to his last paper and slips it into a fresh folder, pulling out a new folder and paper afterwards. A slight smirk grows on his face as he eyeballs Casey from across the room.

"Name?"

"Casey."

"No; your last one." He sighs.

"Letter."

"Alright, Casey Letter; I'd appreciate it greatly if you'd take a seat. This interview isn't going to happen at six meters apart, I'm afraid."

Casey shrugs and complies, seating herself in front of the desk, opposite to Officer Aristide. He clicks his pen and writes down some basic information, including her school number and birth date. Casey saw hundreds of movies with these interviews and plenty more in C.S.I episodes. Being a part of one was both exciting and nerve wracking.

Officer Aristide reaches into a backpack on the floor, pulling out what looked like a recording device with a microphone. He doesn't press any buttons on the device yet. Aristide sighs and runs his fingers through his hair.

"Okay. The first question I'm going to ask you is important, but I need you to answer honestly and in full detail."

"I've got it. Ask away." Casey nods.

"Do you have any cigarettes?" Aristide says bluntly.

"What?"

"I said 'do you have any cigarettes?' Do you have any _cigs_, _ciggies_, _smokes_, or any _Joes_?"

"What? No!" Casey replies defensively. "I don't smoke, Officer. Why are you asking?"

Officer Aristide just groans miserably. "Close to forty students in one class and not one of them is a bad apple. How are you kids so clean these days?"

Casey just sits there, staring blankly with one eyebrow raised judgmentally at the officer sitting across from her. Aristide shoots her an incredulous look, but pursues the topic no further. Instead, he picks up the recording device and clicks the power button.

"Never mind. For the sake of credibility, I need to record this interview on tape. Is that okay you, Casey?"

Casey relaxes a bit and smiles. "I don't mind. For the most part of this year I was following people around with cameras and recording their lives. At least you're asking for permission. Go ahead."

"What? Are you a film maker?"

"I wouldn't go as far to call me a film maker, but I do like to post stuff on blogs. I guess you can call them 'home videos'."

"Interesting. Well, let's start with this." There is a beep in from the device, a signal to the start of the interview. Mr. Aristide reaches into a separate folder and pulls out a single photo. He places it in front of Casey. "Look at the photo of this student. Would you happen to recognize her?"

Casey's smile vanishes. Her blood runs cold in an instant.

The face of the student in the photo registers into Casey's mind instantly. She gasps when the photo nearly locks eyes with her and sends chills down her spine. It's all too familiar; the girl's dyed hair and her relaxed eyes. What is her physics partner doing in a photo in this interview?

What was Monica's photo doing in this interview?

"Know her?" Aristide repeats.

"Monica! That's my friend! What does she have to do with this?"

Aristide stares back coldly for a moment before answering."As of seven hours ago, she's been officially missing. At her home, we found very little evidence that could give us any kind of lead in identifying her kidnappers."

"Kidnappers?" Casey almost whispers.

"We already know that she was taken. Whoever dragged her from her home wasn't competent enough to not leave signs of forced entry and struggle. But there's no DNA to confirm who did it. So here I am; trying to get information on who might have done this."

"Have you sent out a search party?" Casey demands.

"We have eyes in most parts of Seattle, but we're S.O.L if her kidnappers have managed to leave the city."

"Can't you call a manhunt or something? You have to catch them before they do something terrible to Monica!"

"Look, Casey; I don't have clearance to make those kinds of calls. My way of helping is by getting you to cooperate. I need you to do your part in this so that we can have something to work with. Do you understand?"

Casey fights down the bubbling anxiety expanding like rotten cotton candy. By merely sitting in this chair, in this very room, in this very school, she feels time that could be devoted to finding her friend is wasting away.

But what could she possibly do to help? Seattle was far too large and dangerous for her to be mindlessly wandering in search of Monica. As reluctant as she felt, she resigns to sitting back in the chair and tries to absorb the deeply upsetting news.

"I understand." She concedes.

"From what I understand, your friend was a person of character with many connections around your school. Correct me if I'm wrong."

"No, that's right." Casey answers

"Were there any of her friends that you would consider 'sketchy?'"

"Sketchy?" Casey almost chuckles.

"I mean, were there any of low standing or bad upbringing?"

"How would I know about their upbringing?" She sighs.

"I've been a kid once too, you know. Everybody gets to know something about everybody else at some point. If there were any people who your friend should have avoided, I'm sure you ought to know." Aristide gestures with his pen, standing from his chair.

"Monica chooses her friends wisely…"

"I'm not so convinced of that." Aristide picks up a couple of music sheets from a stand. "From what I've been told in the last hour from your peers, her most recent 'friend' has earned her some unwanted attention. What was the name?"

"Andrew Detmer." The name rolls off of her tongue almost as venomously as fluently.

"You'd be lucky to find a single light pole in town that doesn't have his and another boy's faces attached to it. Is there any light you personally can shed on the kid?"

"He was a lonely kid; talented for sure, but still lonely. About one month ago, he blew everybody away and stole the entire talent show with the craziest act you'd ever see."

Mr. Aristide sets the music sheets down and reaches into his pocket, but comes out empty handed, like he forgot something. He frowns. "Hold on. You're telling me a high school loner just decided to go up on stage and perform. That sounds just a bit strange, don't you think?"

"I know it wasn't his idea. It was…"

Memories flash through her mind, many of which make her feel sentimental and nostalgic. She can still picture herself standing near the back of the school gymnasium with Matt, musing, awing, and cheering for Andrew and Steve as they pulled off tricks and feats not even the most skilled magician could hope to do. But accompanying the nostalgia is also the sadness when she pictures her would-have-been class president's face looking up at the sky for the last time before burial. Casey just happened to be one of the few people in possession of Steve's last few days on film; the ones where his fixed grin was at its largest.

"Andrew did have friends; two of them. But one of them died just about two months ago."

Mr. Aristide nods knowingly and scratches the side of his head. "It's probably best we get back on track. If there's a chance Andrew Detmer might be linked to Monica's kidnappers, then I need to find somebody who can give me precise information about what happened between the two of them. You said Andrew had two friends. Who is the living one?"

Casey's eyes widen as the reality of her situation dawns on her. Was this a blessing or a curse? Getting the police to prioritize Matt as a lead in finding Monica would increase the likeliness of him coming back, but what would that mean for him and for her? Did she really want the secretive, obsessive and edgy Matt back in her life? Did he even want to be found? But the thought of, for once in a month, having the answers she needs to carry on with her life is almost too attractive to ignore. After weighting the consequences, her scattered mind finally comes to a consensus.

"I don't know his name." Casey answers

"What?"

"I don't know who he is."

Officer Aristide's eyes narrow,

"You don't know his name, or you just don't know who he is? If you've seen his face, I can bring out a year book."

Casey doesn't need to answer. Instead, the tense atmosphere is deflated by the chiming of the bell for break. There is a knock on the band room door and rustling of the doorknob, most likely from the students eager to prepare their instruments for practice.

"Officer, I really think it's time I got back to reviewing for physics."

Officer Aristide sighs and puts the final touches on his sheet, filling out the comment box. He answers the door with a glare when it rustles noisily along with another series knocks. The sound of the recording stopping with another beep officially puts an end to the interview.

"Of course; you're free to go. Thanks for your cooperation, Casey."

Casey simply nods before she steps out of the band room. On the inside, she's partially relieved at delaying having to confront the unknown, but crushed and disappointed in her own self for betraying Monica so easily. An fear of regret creeps over her as she walks away from what could have been her chance. Had she made the wrong choice?

No. she'd already said enough.

In a crazy world like this, where massive rewards fall under the heads of mere boys and students on each other for anything more than association, perhaps secrecy is her only weapon of survival. This was everyday life; however, it takes her only today to see the secret war that has been waged every since the hospital bombing. The cops, posters, and news stories were a tool of war.

Monica…Matt…

As she carefully pushes her way through the packed hallways, she turns back on last time to see Officer Aristide, a tool of war, pulling his gear together before he exits the school on his investigation. She can't tell whether or not he's glancing at her since his hat has been replaced, shadowing his weary eyes. He vanishes amongst the bodies swimming through the arteries of the school.

She turns away and continues down the hall, only one thought brewing in her clouded mind.

_Just wait, Monica. I'll come for you somehow. I promise to find a way._

* * *

**Thanks for reading and please review**

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**July 4, 2012**


	5. Chapter 4

**A Requiem for Who You Were**

**By Auel the Winter**

**Chapter 4: The mongoose and the cobra**

7:30 PM,

Glass crunches and bottle camps crumple noisily underneath Casey's shoe, each step accidentally pushing bits and pieces of garbage and debris scuttling across the bleak pavement. Casey still can hardly believe how sad the school tennis court: neglected, forgotten, and filthy beyond belief. Despite tennis being one of the few sports she actually would have signed up for, Casey was reluctant to play in such a loathsome environment. Nowadays, the tennis courts are used purely as a place for smokers to gather like flocks of cancerous penguins. The current inhabitants are equally unwelcoming.

A crowd is gathered at the back end of the court near a heavily damaged metal fence. There's hooting and hollering, cursing and spitting. Casey recognized every one of their hideous faces, but never learned their names; that is, except for the boy standing the middle socializing with the rest, clearly the ring leader: Drake. Casey hasn't been inside the court for more than thirty seconds and already she feels it is way past time to leave. Her window of opportunity to do so disappears when she is detected.

"Oh, look how it is." One of the boys says, turning around from the socializing goons. "Hey Drake, our guest is here."

All conversation slows into murmurs, as the group turns their beady eyes on Casey, standing nervously across the court. The parting of their circle reveals Tawny; her tanned skin is partially covered by a neck scarf and her eyes are ringed with dark circles, rendering her excessive use of makeup useless. She stares at Casey inquisitively and Casey does the same to her, old memories coming back at seeing her face.

"Tawny…"

"Letter…" Tawny answers in a muffled greeting, her mouth covered by a scarf.

The exchange is broken by a shaggy member of the group wearing a stained denim Jacket leaping onto the one of the rusty chain-link fences surrounding the area and climbing to the top. After visibly surveying the area, he leaps down, landing effortlessly on his feet. He nods to Casey and sits back down amongst the group.

"There ain't a single car left in the school. All the teachers must have gone home."

The largest member of the group stands, gesturing for Casey to take her seat with them. She's not fond of the idea of being too close to the likes of Tawny's friends, but she feels like she's in no position to object. Without a word, she sits next to Tawny and the shaggy guy, completing the circle.

In the center there is an ash tray, cans and bottles of beer, cigarette packs, and an old radio. Each member of the group studies Casey, some who are clearly more perverted than others. Some chuckle when she glares back at them and others meow to mock her.

"Tawny, I would have been totally more interested in your friends if you told me they looked like this in the first place." One guy jabs.

"Yeah! No offense, but I was under the impression that most girls who were interested in drama were F.U.G.L.Y." another agrees.

The comment is rewarded with howls and laughter from his peers. Tawny, on the other hand, just pulls her scarf to cover more of her face, embarrassed. She doesn't dare look at Casey, who is no less than mortified.

Out of all the scumbags she sees laughing and mocking both Tawny and herself, the only one she recognizes is Drake from English class. Seeing his smirk right now and remembering his defiant sneer in class today just makes the hand behind her back clench.

"I'm here! What do you want from me?" She stands, causing some of the hyenas to cease their fits. Casey pulls out her note from English class and looks Drake directly before she continues. "I came here because I was threatened in _this_ piece of 'lovely' literature. Get down to business or I'm not staying another minute here with you dumbasses!"

The words pour out of Casey venomously and passionately, fueled by her growing panic and fear of being in this horrible place. As soon as her mouth closes, she turns pale at the thought of what she just said. She backs away slightly.

There is silence. Some of the boys scowl, while others simply grin devilishly without taking a single word she said seriously. Drake's eyes just narrow as he takes another drink from his can. He nods.

"The girl's right." He takes a couple steps and retrieves a musty-looking gym bag from the side fence. He places it in the center, relatively close to Casey."

Casey eyes Drake suspiciously. "What's in there?"

"Find out yourself, Letter." Drake returns to his seat, picking up his can.

She glares at Drake, who teases her with a wide grin full of sharp teeth. All eyes are on Casey as she hesitantly grasps the zipper of the bag and pulls back. Instantly, Casey is greeted by an old friend; one that she thought she'd never see again.

"My video cam!" She tears the device from the bag and nearly kisses the lens.

Casey couldn't possibly describe how much she missed her video camera. On the night she last saw Matt, She had forgotten about it in her frustration and left for home, not realizing until later that night that it was misplaced. She didn't go back for it, not daring to possibly face her ex boyfriend again. The camera was no longer in its place the following morning, leaving her to believe that somebody had taken it.

At last, the mute girl sitting next to Casey speaks.

"I found it on the street that night; the one where the hospital was bombed."

Drake spits on the pavement. "Which is something we'll get to shortly."

Tawny nods. "At first, I had no idea who's it was, but I was curious enough to check the footage; your footage."

Casey stops fondling her camera and smiles at Tawny. "You really have no idea how hard I looked for this thing. It's like a part of me. Thank you so much Tawny! I can't wait to take this baby home."

"…That's the thing…" Tawny fumbles with the scarf over her mouth. She still refuses to make eye contact with Casey.

Casey loses the smile on her face when she sees Tawny's humiliated expression, combined with the smug sneer on Drake's face. Drake personally advances on Casey like a cat of prey and snatches back the video camera. He lets it hand loosely by his side by the handle.

"What are you doing? Give me it back!" Casey snarls.

"Now we get to the fun part, Letter. We didn't call you here to do you a favor. You _can _have the camera, if you do something for us." Drake gleams with a sinister grin.

"And what would that be?"

"I want to make a deal. It's really simple; we give you the camera and you tell us where Garety is."

"Matt?" She barely whispers.

"Precisely,"

Through hair hanging in front of her face, Casey glares knives into the brat holding her camera. Matt didn't personally have any connections with these brainless dolts, let alone resentments. There was no way they wanted him for any trivial reason. Rather….

"This is about money." She states matter-of-factly.

Drake's expression remains malicious. "Damn right."

Casey just shakes her head. "You're out of luck. I don't have any idea where he is. Now give me my camera."

"Not good enough, Letter. I know that if there's anybody on this entire planet who would know where Garety is, it's either Detmer or yourself. And since the alternative is currently hiding himself, your value as a lead goes up tenfold." He cups his hands over his face and runs them down. "Now, I suggest you take one mesely second to consider how serious about this I am."

Casey grits her teeth. "You idiot; there are cops everywhere in the city these days. Just try and do something to me without being caught!" She more than partially regrets her challenge, but is reluctant to bow to this cretin.

Mr. Cretin Just laughs. "And under normal circumstances, you'd be right. But believe it or not, the cops are now my asset. All I have to do is hand in this footage of you and Garety and you're toast. What do you think the cops will suspect of you when they find you've been concealing your lovey-dovey bullshit relationship with him?"

Oh my God; how many of the files did they look through? Most of the footage was of her interviewing random students about trends and ideas, but towards the last couple of clips was a rather embarrassing shot her ex boyfriend took of her when they were together. Why didn't she delete that immediately when she had the chance?

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Drake notices her flushed expression and grins mischievously. "I'll give you one thing; you should feel proud to be blessed with such a body. Garety probably is missing you and that sexy body right now."

"Screw off, Drake!" Casey hisses.

"Touchy much?"

She stands from her spot in the circle defiantely. "You give me back that camera right now, you asshole!"

"Haven't you heard the saying 'gimme gimme never get'?"

All goons in the circle break down laughing and pointing at Casey. One of them even tosses a half full beer can at her, which rebounds off her shoulder and spills the bland fluid on her. Her knuckles whiten from her grip. Tawny, who had been silent, save a few words, finally takes the liberty to intervene.

"Drake, can't we just give her the camera and forget about this? We're already getting in too deep, don't you think?"

The laughter ceases and all eyes are on Tawny instead of Casey. Unlike Casey, Tawny fidgets and squirms underneath the boys unrelenting and accusing stares. Her scarf is still protectively guarding half of her face, most likely hiding her terrified expression from standing up to the likes of Drake. Casey feels awful for the girl, as she could tell instantly when she arrived that she was nothing more than a tool used to lure Casey out. In all likeliness, Tawny was forced to write that note to Casey in English class.

Drake blinks dumbly."What? I'm sorry; would you like to repeat that, Tawny? You weren't loud enough."

"… Maybe we should just give Casey her ca-"

She is cut off by Drake mimicking her in a ridiculous and insulting tone. One other member of the group falls over in a fit of gasping and laughing. Tawny tries pointlessly to pull her scarf over as much face as she can, but it snags at its limit. Casey doesn't need to see all of Tawny's face to understand how humiliated she must be feeling right now.

"You see, this is the problem with you, Tawny. Whenever a solution to any problem presents itself, no matter how desirable the prize is or how simple the solution may be, you get all tentative let your opportunity slip away. Mind you that everybody here is in for the prize as well. You think you can just persuade all of us to give it up?'

Casey interrupts."I'm gonna be bold and assume the 'prize' is the two hundred thousand both Matt and Andrew."

"You keep focused on our deal! It's either tell me what I need to know, or spend at least all summer in a detention center for questioning. The choice is yours." Drake tears his attention from Tawny, who looks just short of tears

"I'm telling you I don't know!" Casey yells back.

"Liar, liar; pants on freaking fire. You're wasting my time as well as everybody else's time here. Unless you give me something to work with, this camera goes slam down on the reception desk at the police station." Drake chants.

"I don't know what you want me to say!"

"Drake, she doesn't know where Matt is!" Tawny cries.

"Shut up, Tawny!" Drake snaps at the girl, who winces. Visibly, something crosses his mind and his face is pulled into a disgusting smirk. "There's a real trend with you that I'm noticing. You jump at the opportunity for fun, but when the painful part for sacrifice comes, you just skimp out. And when you finally come to realize your mistakes, it's just to damn late. You live every second of your life wondering how your life would be if you weren't such a little bitch. That goes for both this and our baby you so kindly killed. "

This time, nobody laughs. The deliriously humorous atmosphere among the boys was instantly frozen by the mention of Tawny's abortion. Sitting in a circle, some of the boys suddenly become very interested in the ground, but some just stare up at him with questioning eyes. His smirk disappears at the absence of support from his peers. Standing opposite of him is Casey, eyes wide with shock, and a teary eyed Tawny.

"What?" he asks, avoiding eye contact with his peers ignorantly.

"That was a bit uncalled for, man." One of his friends mutters.

"Yeah, I don't think Tawny deserved that." Another agrees.

"I thought we all agreed we'd never bring that up."

Drake just hisses through clenched teeth, slightly embarrassed. "I was making a point! What's wrong with you guys?"

"What's wrong with you?" Casey states, her voice quivering with rage.

"Mind your own God damn business, Letter!" He retorts heatedly.

Casey take no offense to any of his childish rebukes any longer. Instead, her attention is focused on Tawny, shrunken up and with her head buried in her knees. She cannot describe the amount of pity she feels for the girl. The only question was which was worse, going through with an abortion, or ending up pregnant with Drake's baby in the first place. She kneels down and puts a hand on Tawny's shoulder and tries to protect her own mind against the girl's heart-wrenching sobs.

"This has gone on long enough. Tell me where Garety is or rot in a cell, Letter! I won't wait much longer." Drake stomps on his beer can, causing it to crumple and split until it is flat as a disk.

"How could you say that to Tawny?" Casey presses Drake.

"It's none of your business."

"It is now." She raises from kneeling position and faces opposite of a highly annoyed Drake.

Casey could take endless amounts of teasing or even verbal abuse. But there was something about her that just snapped whenever she saw somebody else in great distress. She was always one to cry whenever she saw the tears of another; it was a childish instinct. Now, all she wants to do is crush the source of Tawny's misery. She glares diamond tipped daggers into Drake.

Then she feels it. A pain fills her mind and grows sharper and sharper towards the front of her brain. Clearly, sunlight wasn't the only thing capable of causing her horrible migraine. But there's a difference now. In the midst of her pain, there is a clarity she had never felt before about anything. It's like she's focusing the pinnacle of her headache towards her eyes, which are glowering into Drake's very existence. With the insane pressure growing in her head, she feels as though she could pop Drake's with enough concentration. Drake smirks.

"Oooohh, scary. Is the little kitten all riled up? You know, you're a lot sexier when you look at me that way. You should do that more often, baby." He chuckles.

"You're a worm…"

"Oh am I? So what does that make you; the shit that I'm going to eat for breakfast? I'm going to give you one last chance to tell me what I need to know, or nice Drake takes a hike."

"You're less than a worm. You're nothing but a virus."

Drake snarls and advances forward, letting Casey's camera land lens first on the littered pavement. the batteries launch out of the device from the impact. Many of his peers stay close by, but are unsure as to what their leader's intentions are, or what they would expect. Drake and Casey, the mongoose and the cobra, meet in the middle of the circle, expressing their sheer detest for each other. Casey's fist is balled tightly and shaking, but Drake doesn't make a single move yet.

_He's right there, alone, unguarded. What are you waiting for, girl? Crush him! Bash his skull in! Make him cry for his mommy before you deliver the final blow! You said it yourself. He's nothing but a worm…_

Out of nowhere, Casey's body turns on her. Her vision blurs and her legs begin to lose strength. Not only that, but her headache dissipates in an instant, leaving a light headed feeling behind. She takes a couple staggering steps towards Drake before collapsing to her knees. Drake grins, unlike the confused and spooked teenagers around him. He grasps her hair and pulls her head up to face him, causing her to gasp in pain. He's mocking her; she can tell. Yet she hears no words that come out of his horrible mouth. She only listens to the other voice.

_They betrayed him. They'll betray you too. You waste your time trying to communicate with the likes of him. It's easier to just kill him. Nobody would second guess you; it's self defense…_

Her vision is scrambled into fragments of the world around her. She can make out Drake squirming and struggling with two peers who finally decided to stop him. Tawny is holding Casey and pulling her away from the school yard bully. Casey just murmurs incoherently and pushes Tawny off of her gently. Standing up straight, she steps forward to face Drake again.

"Get your mitts off of me, you mother whores!" Drake shouts at his friends. More than one of his minions are tackling him from all directions, trying to subdue due him.

"Drake, you have to stop this! You've gotten out of hand!" The denim clad teenager shouts at his leader.

Unbeknownst to Drake, Casey advance towards him, not knowing or even caring about what she'll do when she faces him. There's something stirring within her that she never felt before in her life; something primal. Her fingers ball and flex as she approaches Mr. Cretin. She stops behind him as he fights against the denim clad one.

"I said let go, ass face!" Drake pushes his peer into the chain fence. Only then does he turn around and see the teenage girl glowering at him. He spits. "You!"

_Just think about it. What do you think he will go on to be if you let him live. You might as well be allowing an infection to grow. You'll be doing the world a favor, I promise you. Just follow my lead…_

"I've had enough. Have fun in prison, bitch! Goodnight!"

_Now is the time…_

Almost as though time freezes, Casey faces the voice, knowing who and what she is exactly. She is Casey Letter, documenter, student and friend. What she is not is a murderer. She gives the voice its answer.

"No."

_No? Very well then. It is your funeral..._

Her vision explodes as Drake's fist comes into contact with the right side of her face. She hits the pavement, to the horror of all those around her, especially Tawny. Her face is cut on broken glass and she feels blood drip down her cheek. Still, she is detached to the real world. Instead, she focuses on the figure in her mind as she takes her leave. the figure shakes her head, disappointed.

_If you continue to allow this to happen to you, I'll have no choice but to do all the work for you…_

* * *

**Thanks for reading and please review**

**Visit profile page for updates on story**

**July 11, 2012**


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